Chapter Ten

Smith woke up.

He gingerly felt the clotted mass on the back of his head, an act which brought a shrieking blast of pain that seemed to try, unsuccessfully, to escape through his eyes.

"Oh, shit," he muttered to himself. "Delmonico's getting better at this."

He took a look at his left hand, and realised he had broken his middle finger again. Gritting his teeth, which sent another wave of pain across his head, he set the finger with his other (his right) hand, and started looking through the debris for his splint and some aspirin.

"What a mucking fess," he thought out loud to no one in particular, kicking loose papers and clothes aside to clear a path to his bathroom.

"Good thing I mailed it!" The splint fit tighter than he remembered. Probably because the finger was swollen more than usual this time. The throbbing of the wrapped finger was threatening the intensity of the throbbing of his skull, and Smith sat down to wait for the aspirin to hit.

"Damn good thing this case is over!" he sighed. Boy, was he sore! A night on the floor had never done this to him before. By degrees he managed to relax, and he went through the checklist of things left to wrap things up.

1. Tell Flannerty about Perez' drop.

2. See Perez arrested with his own eyes.

3. Call Ms. Wilson back to town.

4. Get Paid.

5. Give Ms. Wilson the envelope.

6. Put sugar in Delmonico's tank.

“No hurry right now, though. The drop's not 'til Friday and the letter can't get back before Saturday morning, maybe even Monday." As things leveled off in Smith's thought process, more mundane matters evidenced themselves. "Willie," he said out loud, "you're a bigger mucking fess than this place."

A shower and a snappy tune in the elevator on the way down, added to the prospects of a few days off and getting paid, would have almost paved the way to complete recovery, had he not also been ravenously hungry.

"Damn good thing Perez doesn't know I'm working for Wilson," Smith thought as he heard his name called.

"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, you got some mail this morning, Mr. Smith," intoned Joe. "I knew you would - you know, we was sayin' the other day about how you never got any an' I had this kind of feeling that just talkin' about it would make it happen like it does with so much other stuff, you know, like when you wonder what The O's special is an' you kind of think you want a tenderloin an' you say to me `Joe, I'm goin' over The O for a tenderloin - want one?' an' I say `why, sure, Mr. Smith, if it ain't no trouble an' you're comin' back over here when you're done I'll get the 'zack change all ready, thank you, kindly!"

Smith took his mail.

"An' what do you know what? you get over at The O after you say that to me, you know, an' you see on the blackboard `Tenderloin San'wich, Fries or Hash Browns, Pie, an' Coffee Today' an' think `Now ain't that somethin'! Joe an' me was just talkin' 'bout that!' or like in baseball - Well, Mr. Smith! Mr. Smith, you got your favorite finger in a bad way again, I see! You know I'm jus' teasin' you 'bout that; no 'fence taken when none 'tended, I hope - anyways in baseball when a outfielder - or a infielder, I guess, you know, it don't matter - makes a great play on the last out of a enning you ever notice who is first at bat next? Most times it's that same player what made that great play, you know, and there's people say that kind o' thing's jus' coincidence or luck or somethin' an' there ain't no order to this world but you know what I say, Mr Smith?"

Smith knew, and took his departure.

"I say that's jus' more proof o' God's good plan, you know; that things all work together like cogs on a wheel or water on fire or any other number o' - You have a good day, Mr. Smith!" Joe shouted out this last blessing to be heard through the closing door.

Smith walked down to The O, picking up a newspaper someone had left on the bus-stop bench. It really was a nice day; the sun was out, some kids playing hooky were skating on the street, which wasn't as noisy or congested as usual. There were even some stools open at the counter at The O.

"What can I get you today, Willie?" asked Diane, wiping off the counter with a suspiciously grey rag as she set out a napkin and an empty coffee cup. Smith folded the newspaper open on the counter and was reaching for his mail, which he had put in his inside pocket, when he realized that he had forgotten his wallet, which he also usually kept in that pocket.

"I don't know," he answered. "How's my credit? I came out without my wallet. Damn! I'm starved, too." Diane sighed. She had heard this before, but not from Smith. The O's policy was posted over the greasy mirror: "No Pay, No Way!" But she allowed nearly everybody the benefit of the doubt once. "OK, I guess. Pay me back next time you come in, or you don't get served, though."

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver."

"Yeah, I got a hole in my head, I know. So. What are you so starved for?"

"By any chance is the special a tenderloin sandwich?" asked Smith. For some reason I've got a craving for that."

"Gee whiz, Willie, where's your head today?" admonished Diane, as the telephone on the wall behind her began to ring. "First you come in here without any money, and then you ask - oh, just a minute, let me get the phone. Be right back."

While she took the call, Smith scanned the paper. Good deal," he thought to himself, "I haven't seen this one yet. Must be today's." He congratulated himself on his find, and leafed back to see the funnies' page. All his favorites were dull today. The sports section, after a long search, was missing, and the weather outlook called for a thunderstorm that afternoon. He withdrew his congratulations, until he noticed the forecast for Saturday was sunny and pleasant. "At least the weekend might be nice," he mused. He pulled out his mail. A phone bill. A credit card bill. A store flyer. Diane was off the phone.

"Anyway, you wanted a tenderloin? OK, I guess, but you ought to know it can't be the special today."

"Why not?" wondered Smith aloud, as he picked up an envelope that looked familiar.

"Did you bump your head on something or something?" asked Diane.

"You know we don't even have a special today. We never have specials on weekends. You get hit by lightning in that storm yesterday? Hey, are you OK?"

This was indeed a good question. Smith's hands were visibly shaking as he stared with eye-popping concentration at the envelope in his hands. "It can't be! How did this get here so fast?" he muttered aloud. Then Diane's words registered. "What storm yesterday? Weekend?" His headache was coming back, big time. Could he have been out that long? He jumped off his stool. "No Special?" he practically screamed.

"Jeece, Willie, take it easy!" said Diane. "Don't you even know what day this is?"

"Please tell me it's Friday!" begged Smith, spinning the newspaper around and frantically pointing at the date on it.

"OK, it's Friday, if it's that important to you," said Diane, "but it's Saturday to the rest of the world."

"Shitshitshit!" hissed Smith as he scooped up his mail and ran for the door.

"Hey! Where you going?" yelled Diane after him.

"To kill goddamn Delmonico!" shrieked Smith as he tore up the sidewalk.

The pounding of his feet geometrically amplified the pounding in his head to such a degree that Smith finally had to slow to a walk and, holding his head, try to order his thoughts. This was serious. The drop was made yesterday; the police were not there to interrupt it as he had planned. Perez was at large. He would still be looking for the locker number and key which Smith had just received from himself in the mail.

Perez would now be looking for his client to punish her for betraying him. Probably kill her. But not until he got his books back. Luckily Perez didn't know where she was. God, will she be pissed! Probably won't pay him, now. No way around it, though; she will have to be told to stay put until something can be worked out. What can be worked out?

Goddamn, did he blow it. Goddamn Delmonico. He pulled the door open and stomped into the lobby.

"Hello 'gain, Mr. Smith, that was a quick trip, wunnit? I wonder if I might have a word with you 'bout this magazine ar'cle I been readin' 'bout the life an' afterlife of Elvis an' Priscilla even though she ain't dead yet I guess it's kinda, you know, a philosophical kinda ar'cle an' - "

"Goddammit, Joe, why didn't you tell me it was Saturday? Next time I see you air your tongue I want it saying `Mr. Smith, it's Saturday, Mr. Smith!' You understand? Shut up!" Smith was in the elevator as the last two words reached the astonished Joe, who could only nod his understanding, having obediently stopped talking, now that there was no one to talk at.

Smith waited impatiently for the elevator to reach his floor. God, he hated that song. He burst into his apartment, had to search through the scattered papers on the floor and on the bed to find the phone number (goddamn Delmonico), then had to fish through the wreckage again to find the phone. "She'd better be there," thought Smith. "I told her to stay put."

"Rodsan Rex Motor Hotel, good morning, this is Roxie speaking, we do have vacancies available temporarily, how may I help you, please?" droned a voice.

"Listen!" barked Smith, "this is important! I need to talk to Karen Wilson, Mizzz Kaaaren WWWilllsssonnn, room 125 BEEE. Please hurry!"

"Thank you! Please hold while I transfer your call as per your instructions, and, please - do have a wonderful day!" Thirty seconds of local radio commercials later and one second before Smith would have lost his mind forever, the same voice informed him that a Ms. Karen Wilson had yesterday morning checked out, leaving no forwarding address, and wondered which other guest of the Rodsan Rex might be connected - or would have wondered, had Smith not hung up on it.

"Shitshitshit!" To lend influence to this vociferation he stamped his foot and thrust his left hand into the air, making a fist as best he could, or wanted. This was not the kind of day he had expected. He took some more aspirin. His head burst repeatedly, and no wonder. He probably had a concussion, or worse. Goddamn Delmonico. Now where the hell had his client taken off to? As if to answer this question, the phone rang.

That hurt. Better answer it than let it ring again, he decided.

"Mr. Smith, it's Saturday, Mr. Smith," said Joe. Bad decision, thought Smith. "Mr. Smith, I'm callin' to give you some good news, since I thought you could use some, though it's not my policy to call residents on the house phone, but since you was kinda mad at me, for some reason, I thought I could sorta make it up to you if I called with somethin' you'd be glad to hear, so that's - "

"What - what - what's the news, Joe?" asked Smith with all the patience he could muster, which wasn't much. "Briefly."

"Why, Mr. Smith, you'll find out soon enough, I guess, but I guess I can tell you anyhow, since I got you on the phone an' ever'thin', an' I jus' know you'll be happy to hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Well, you know, I don't normally give out the residents' addresses to nobody, but since you was kinda mad at me, for some reason, I wanna do you a kinda favor, you know, an' since these guys went to college with you an' all, an' hadn't seen you for such a long time or anything, an' anyhow it was their idea to surprise you, which I thought was a neat idea, 'cause, you know, I like surprises myself, though I like presents sorta better than visits, dependin' on the present, or dependin' on the visitor, you know, but I thought, shoot, I don't know these guys myself, so I can't tell Mr. Smith who they are an' spoil their surprise that way, so that's good, but I can call an' give him my own surprise as a favor, sorta, an' maybe buy him a few minutes to pick up his place, if you don't mind my sayin' that your place could use a little pickin' up, not that it's any o' my business, you know, but, well, ever'body knows your place is, well, never mind, but Mr. Smith, it's Saturday, which you wanted to know, for some reason, an' two old friends o' yours are waitin' in the lobby for the elevator up to your place right now. Mr. Smith? Hello?" Puzzled, Joe hung up the phone.

It's a shame that Smith didn't wait for Joe to finish, for a couple of reasons. One, to the best of his recollection, he had never heard Joe finish a sentence before. Two, there was a vital piece of intelligence stuck on at the tail end of the monologue that Smith would have been interested in hearing: namely, that his visitors were still in the lobby waiting for the elevator. Unfortunately, Smith bolted as soon as he heard two men were coming up, because, despite not having gone to college, he was learned enough to determine that either a.) Delmonico had sent a goon squad, or b.) someone else had.

Smith, figuring that his "friends" would use the elevator, headed for the stairwell. Each jump down (initially three steps at a time, soon two steps, quickly down to one) boosted his headache to ecstatic plateaus of discomfort. As he finally reached the ground floor, therefore, he was reduced to holding his head with both hands. So, as he backed out of the stairwell his hands obscured his face from the sight of his two visitors, still waiting for the elevator, thinking they had plenty of time. Smith was apprehensive at the sight of the men, who he did not recognize, but realized that they didn't recognize him, either, and began to coolly make his way out, when Joe blurted out from behind the desk, "Mr. Smith, it's Saturday, Mr. Smith, an' how nice you come down to meet your friends, though between you an' me I knew you wouldn't wanna ennertain 'em in your apartment, lookin' the way it always does, not that it's any o' my business, o' course, but . . ."

The men at the elevator heard Joe's words just as the doors finally slid aside. One immediately stepped inside to justify the long wait, but the other grabbed him by the back of the coat, pulled him around, and shoved him toward the desk.

Smith knew he couldn't run from them very long with the headache he had, and he wasn't too fleet of foot, anyway. The only chance he had, as far as he could see, he took.

"Joe!" whispered Smith, "Joe, listen to me for a second! These men are not my friends. Do you understand?" Smith took the envelope and surreptitiously slid it into the edge of Joe's magazine. "I am very interested in that article you mentioned this morning. Please save this magazine for me so I can read it myself later on. OK?"

Joe, perhaps impressed by the urgency implied by whispering, merely nodded his agreement, as the two men came up on either side of Smith, each taking him by an arm, and ushering him towards the door.

"Mr. Smith, so nice to see you again at last," said Right Arm.

“Yes, after all this time!" grinned Left Arm.

"What's your combined IQs, you guys, huh?" asked Smith.

"Higher than yours, I bet!" shot back Left Arm. "Huh, um, Bill?"

Bill ignored him, directing his comments instead towards Smith.

“Now, Mr. Smith, let's not be nasty. We want you to look nice for the reunion, don't we Bill?"

Left Bill said nothing, concentrating instead on getting Smith into the back seat of an old Mustang.

"Don't we, Bill?" repeated Right Bill, emphasizing the name.

"Oh! Certainly! Can't have Mr. Smith show up with a black eye, for instance, or a broken arm, or nothing like that, can we, Bill?" responded Left Bill. Smith rolled his eyes. This time Right Bill missed his cue. Left Bill persisted, squeezing into the back seat with Smith, "Right, Bill?"

Right Bill was digging out car keys. "Right, right, it wouldn't look good for Mr. Smith to have nothing broke at the reunion." He found the key and got behind the wheel. Smith decided to bite.

"OK, Bill and Bill, who do you work for, what do you want with me, and where are we going?"

"Gee, Bill, he don't know where he's going," said Back Bill. "Why don't you tell him now?"

"Don't you want to know who we are first, Mr. Smith?" asked Front Bill. "Ask us what is our last name."

"I know who you guys are: you're a couple of flunkies working for somebody who's kidnapping me." Smith was getting tired of this act. Front Bill and Back Bill were just getting into it, though.

"Since you was curious," said Back Bill, "my name is Smith. Bill Smith. And our driver's name is also Bill Smith." Back Bill Smith was so pleased with this introduction that he broke into a chuckle, which sounded like a shoe squeaking.

"Very funny," said Smith, who obviously thought otherwise. "You should be on stage.""You watch you mouth, Smith!" hissed Front Bill Smith, for whom the word "stage" conjured up images of the gallows. "I might just start to not care what you look like for the reunion!"

"Yeah!" added Back Bill Smith, who wondered why he should be on a stagecoach.

"What is all this about a reunion?" asked Smith. "What the hell are you, uh, gentlemen talking about?"

"Mr. Smart Mouth don't know what we `flunkies' are talking about!" said Back Bill Smith. "I guess that makes us smarter than him, don't it Dave Bill! Bill! don't it, Bill?"

"Yeah, and you just keep your smart mouth shut from now on and let me do the talking like we planned, see, Bill?" shot back Front Bill Smith. "OK, Mr. Smith, here's the story. We all went to college together, right, and so we're all getting together again for a little reunion. So our employer, a Mr. Bill Smith, had us come personal to invite you. Pretty white of him, right?"

"You guys went to college together, huh?" said Smith. "Let me guess. Bill Smith College, right? Rich. Let me out here."

Front Bill Smith instinctively put his foot on the brake to stop, thought better of it, and continued driving. "Look, Smith, there ain't no Bill Smith College, just plain Smith College, and this here ain't no ordinary reunion. It was arranged special for you."

"Special for you and the Bill Smith Society!" said Back Bill Smith, with squeaks. "Extra special for you and the Bill Smith Society and a certain mutual acquaintance of us both!"

"Shut up, you ape!" shouted Front Bill Smith. "Boss, uh, Smith will drill you for sure!"They were out of the city, now, and Smith was trying to recognize landmarks. He knew the general area pretty well, he thought, but when Front Bill Smith began turning down progressively smaller roads, and finally down a long gravel driveway, Smith could no longer be sure of his own orientation. The sun was still too high in the sky to be of any sure help in judging direction, and when the driveway plunged straight into a heavy woods, even that reference point was lost.

Joe was also heavily in the woods at this point, although he was somewhat more used to it. In spite of his pleasure in sharing an interest in the past and future doings of the Presleys, and the glorious religious ramifications thereof, with Mr. Smith, he had a vague feeling that Mr. Smith might be in some kind of trouble. He had not any inkling of what he might be able to do for him, though, and had decided to forget it and reread the article, so as to be up on its details when Mr. Smith returned. Of course, as Joe opened the magazine, a clue to Mr. Smith's troubles fell out onto the floor. "Hmm," mused Joe. "Maybe this letter's got somethin' to do with all the fuss, not that it's any o' my business, an' it's all wrong to open residents' mail, I know, but maybe I can help, or maybe not, but I won't know 'til I try, though I oughta read that ar'cle again, but if Mr. Smith goes to jail or somethin' I won't be able to talk to him 'bout it anyhow, not that that's skin off my nose or nothin', but then I'd have to rent out Mr. Smith's apartment to somebody else, if I could find somebody to take it, since it's such a wreck, not that that's any o' my business, either, but it is my business, too, if I got to pay out to get it fixed up to get another renter, so maybe I better pick up that letter, even if it is wrong." Joe picked up the envelope, looked at it, knitted his eyebrows in puzzlement, and finally opened it. He squinted as he read its contents, until he got to a certain part, when his eyes flew open in astonishment.

"This got to be the cause of it!" blurted Joe out loud. "This's the bigges' phone bill I ever seen! Them `friends' o' Mr. Smith mus' be collection men o' the phone company!" Joe picked up the phone. "Get me - "

At The O, Diane saw the Mustang drive off. As soon as she could get away from the counter, she placed a phone call. "That's right," said Diane. "Just now. OK."

Lieutenant Flannerty set the receiver down. "The wheels are a-turnin' now, Missy Karen, or should I say - "

"No, you should not say! And please, if you have any social presence at all despite all evidence to the contrary, refer to me as Ms. Wilson!"

She recrossed her legs, placing her hem exactly below her kneecap. "That is my name - I no longer have any other; that was agreed upon."

"No offense indeed intended, me girl, an' I do try to give a good go to the new graces, but to be sure times change fast to an old man's way o' thinkin'," hastened Flannerty. "A good do it is, too, that that snake is soon to be for it, though."

"One, I know you, so speak plainly and for God's sake stuff that ridiculous dialect; two, if you're too old for me to teach some manners to, you're out; and three, that `snake' is only `for it' if that incompetent, hmm, Smith can execute. That part worries me." For all her machinations to now pivot one one fulcrum of dubious hardness did indeed cause her no small amount of concern. "You'd better make that call now."

"A '70 Mustang? Good, that's them, all right. When? OK, you stay there for twenty minutes, then place the call, OK?" Delmonico grinned. Getting out of the car on the right was a little more difficult with a phone in the way, but when you want to hide a Lincoln in the woods you can't grouse if your door is against a tree. Now, nothing to do but wait about eighteen minutes. . .

"At least I know Delmonico would never hire jerks this stupid," thought Smith, as he was shoved out of the car in front of a tidy house in the middle of the woods. "Hell of a place for a reunion, guys!"

The house was a regular storybook affair, from the tulip-lined stone walk to the gingerbread eaves. The only floor had four cozy rooms, but the steep-pitched roof made it look much smaller from the outside.

"Where's Snow White, fellow dwarfs?" asked Smith.

Squeaked Back Bill Smith: "Oh, Snow White's inside, ain't she, Bill?

You be a good little Smith and you'll see her, right, Bill?"

"Shut up! You take the cake, you moron, you know that?" Front Bill Smith grabbed Smith's right arm. "Shut up and let's get this guy inside. We're almost late."

Back Bill Smith hooked Smith's left armpit and the two of them hustled him into the house. Smith looked around. The room was dominated by a stone fireplace on the side wall. A rocking chair, two straight-backed chairs, and a trestle table were the only furniture in the room, as if anything else would fit. A man sitting at the table, looking at some loose papers, which Smith noticed were apparently absolutely completely blank, rose and walked over to him, offering his hand.

"Buenos dios, Meester Smeet! I am so happy that jew can come at theece reunion for the Beel Smeet Society! My name, as eef the eentroduceeng eez necessary, eez, of course, Beel Smeet. Please, Meester Smeet, seet down!"

"This can't be Perez!" thought Smith, as he was pushed into the rocking chair. "The mastermind who the police have been trying to pin down for months? The mystery man who has terrorized the local scum for a year? This, this hokey, smarmy, gladhanding - "

"Perhaps jew are wondereeng what the reason eez for theece leetle together-get, eh, Meester Smeet?" Perez glanced at his watch. "Soon, jew weel know, wone he, Beel and Beel?"

Front Bill Smith was looking out the window towards the Mustang parked in front. "I hope so. It's starting to cloud up already, Boss Smith.

Other parties were interested in the weather, also. Flannerty and Ms. Wilson were consulting their own watches and glancing up at the sky while they listened in silence to the four Smiths in the next room.

Delmonico anxiously looked and listened, waiting behind a tree on the edge of the clearing outside the house. And Joe, his heart pounding with excitement as he raced out of town on his motorbike, while thanking the Lord for the life-giving miracle of rain, was dreading its lubricating effect on pavement.

Joe's little place out in the country, which he retired to the few times he was not on duty, had a trunkline conduit buried along the right-of-way in front which carried thousands of pairs of telephone wires. Joe had no idea of the size or importance of this conduit, only of its location. His plan was to revenge Mr. Smith on the telephone company by letting the air out of the tires of as many company trucks as he could and attributing this punishment to Mr. Smith, to let them know they couldn't push him around. Reasoning that the easiest way to do this would be to get as many of the vehicles in one place as he could, Joe had placed a call to the company, identifying himself as William Smith, the eighth one, and notified them of his planned ditch excavation, at his country address. On the way out of town Joe had passed a couple of parked company trucks, which he deflated the tires of, just to practice, and was exhilarated by the risk, but, worried that he might be too late for The Big One, he sped the rest of the way as fast as he dared, which indeed was as fast as his chariot could fly.

"They'd better hurry!" thought Ms. Wilson, listening at the door. "Incompetents! I guess I have to remind them!"

Perez looked at Smith. Through the slightly opened door behind Smith an envelope was being waved. Perez's eyes went to the envelope, which was then immediately withdrawn. Smith whirled around, as well as his headache and the rocking chair would allow him, to see what Perez was looking at and, seeing nothing in particular, worried that his captivity was being presided over by someone not fully assembled.

"Oh! Jess!" said Perez. "Meester Smeet, jew half a piece of mail that I am eespecially eenterested een. Beel an' Beel, I am assumeeng jew fown the letter of Meester Smeet's, right?"

Front and Back Bills looked at each other in panic. Smith privately congratulated himself on dumping the envelope off onto Joe. Ms. Wilson cursed the day she hired these itinerant stand-ins. Flannerty heard the rumors of distant thunder roll up to the window. And outside, Delmonico attended not only to the thunder but also to the thin drone of a small engine plane, and her watch.

Joe was astounded at the success of his call. No less than three vans, a sedan, a pickup truck, and inexplicably, a hot-sandwich trailer, had parked along the road. Slowing down to plot his approach to the battle, and to sound out some second thoughts, Joe became aware, for the first time, of the telephone company truck that had been following him from town on flapping tires. The driver appeared to Joe to have broken the same finger that Mr. Smith had trouble with, and Joe rightly judged that he probably should not stay to inquire about it. Abandoning his attack, Joe headed for the closest cover, his cottage.

As it began to sprinkle, Delmonico was stealthily crawling towards the house. The plane was almost there, and everything hinged on precise timing. The drop. The Smiths pick it up. Flannerty and Perez to the front room, then sneak in the back and get the drop on them!

"Sergeant, Special Agent D," said Diane into the receiver. "Now!"

Seconds later, sirens were screaming on their way from five speed trap/hideouts near the little house.

The driver of the company truck with the flapping tires was pointing down the long gravel driveway. "That's the little asshole who let the air out of our tires!" he shouted to fifteen men in ties and hardhats. "Let's find out what his problem is!" The men, not finding any sign of excavation, and needing one more call to get them close enough to five o'clock, it being then nearly one, jumped into their machines and drove after Joe.

Joe was repenting mightily his plan by this time. Seeing new pursuers, and hearing sirens approaching from three sides, with the sudden and altogether terrifying vision of an airplane diving toward him, blended with driving rain, thunder, and lightning, and the problem of maneuvering the motorbike down the stony driveway in all haste, he was not at all prepared to see a strange Mustang parked in front of his house.

"Jeecekrice, Pedro!" blurted Front Bill Smith. "Perez never said nothin' about no letter!"

"Shut up!" yelled Pedro, accentless. "You'll blow our covers! Search him! Now!"

"Don't bother," said Smith coolly. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to have it on me? I put it in a safe place."

"Is this it, Boss?" asked Back Bill Smith, to Smith's amazement pulling the envelope out of his inside pocket.

Many things now happened simultaneously. A bright flash of lightning and an immediate thunderclap diverted their attention to the window. The plane, struck by lightning, crashed, with an unimaginable din, directly on top of the Mustang. Joe, panting and crying, burst through the door.

“Who are you?" asked Joe on seeing Pedro.

"Who the hell are you?" yelled Pedro in return.

"Joe!" shouted Smith in bewilderment, looking alternately at the envelope in Back Bill Smith's hand and at Joe. The door to the other room flew open.

"Get out there, yeh fools, and try ta find the package!" ordered Flannerty.

"Flannerty!" screeched Smith. "Am I glad to see you!"

"Perez!" shouted Pedro. "What are you doing here?"

"Perez?" queried a confused Smith. He stared at Flannerty. His head ached unremittingly.

"He's not Perez, you ignoramus," jeered Pedro, pointing past Flannerty. "She is!"

"I told you idiots not to call me that anymore!" shrieked Ms. Wilson, rushing into the room.

"Ms. Wilson!?" muttered Smith weakly.

"Alias Conchita Perez, alias Mary Simpson, alias Karen Wilson, and a half a dozen others in at least three states! You're under arrest!"

"Oh, no!" sobbed Smith, turning to the new voice. "Delmonico!"

"A. k. a. Inspector Delmonico, F. B. I." sneered Flannerty. "You've got nothin' on me, snitch!"

"There he is!" The driver was pointing at Joe, who was trying to get at his phone. "Hey, you! Come here!"

"On the contrary," said Sergeant Jones, shouting at Flannerty from the door. "We've been watching your operation for some time now. There's enough evidence in that wreckage to finish you off! You have the right to remain silent . . . "

Smith dazedly looked around. The room was literally packed with people. In addition, ten men in hardhats, five police officers, and a woman with a big box full of hero sandwiches were trying without success to get in out of the rain. The ambulance and fire truck that Joe had called pulled up outside. Delmonico made her way over to him. "Are we on again for tonight, big guy?" cooed the Inspector.

Smith winced. Then the rocking chair collapsed.

Smith woke up. The room had been cleared of people, and the storm was apparently over.

"Mr. Smith, it's Saturday, Mr. Smith." Joe was taking a cool washcloth off of Smith's forehead. "You OK, Mr. Smith?"

"This is the worst day of my life, Joe," said Smith. "No, I'm not OK. The case I worked on for three weeks is over with no chance of me getting paid. My head is nearly splitting with a bash that knocked me out for two days. My finger is probably gangrenous. And I find out that everybody I know is really someone else."

"I ain't nobody else," said Joe. "Am I, sis?" Delmonico nodded from her chair in the corner.

"Oh, God, kill me now!" pleaded Smith. Then thinking better of that, he turned to face her to give her a piece of his mind, whatever the consequences. But when he turned, he checked his tongue.

She was looking at him with an amused expression on her face, one which he had never seen before. She had changed out of her business tweeds, also, and wore a simple sun dress that complimented her in a way he could scarcely believe. "Maria Delmonico?" ventured Smith.

She laughed. "I would think you'd like to know what happened here today."

"No!" snapped Smith. "Well, yes; but first, are we on for tonight, still?"

"Maybe," replied Maria, coyly. "You don't really know me, you know."

"I guess not," said Smith. "Yeah, yes, I do have some questions, Inspector. Are you really Joe's sister?"

"Let me make it easy for you," said Maria. "For some time, the Bureau and the police have suspected Flannerty of tipping off Perez to busts and stake-outs. Nothing could be proved for a long time, mostly because Flannerty had access to police files and would smell a rat as soon as any real investigation started. For that reason, someone outside the organization had to be brought in."

"Me," said Smith.

"Joe," said Maria.

"Joe?"

"Joe."

"Oh."

"Joe, through careful inquiries, got in touch with Perez, and, eventually even set her up in his cottage here, just the kind of remote headquarters her organization was looking for. It was his idea to establish you as the catalyst."

"Thanks a lot, Joe, said Smith. "I really appreciate the beatings and confusion. You're a real pal."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Smith," grinned Joe.

Perez was suspicious of Flannerty, though. He could expose the whole shebang at any time, and she wanted him out of the picture. So, at my suggestion, she invented the alias of Karen Wilson, Perez' supposedly alienated secretary, and hired you to protect her and the so-called `evidence' she had against Perez."

“You mean the books were fake, too?" asked Smith.

"Did you ever actually see the books?" continued Maria. "There was only a key to a rental locker at the airport. The locker is empty. Anyway, you were to protect this evidence, to be produced against Perez, supposedly after Perez was in custody."

"But that doesn't make sense," said Smith. "Why would she plot her own arrest?"

"That's just what she told you," explained Maria. "In truth, she, as Ms. Wilson, was plotting with me to set up Flannerty. She didn't know, of course, that I knew her real identity. So we set up this drop to catch Flannerty."

"Whoa, wait a minute," said Smith. "Isn't that called entrapment? And how did she know you were with the law?"

"Well, first, we were on shaky ground, as always with any kind of set-up. But it is possible with extensive documentation, and careful execution," said Maria. "As for the other, she thought I was the same shady bookie you thought I was. I told her I had connections in high places, which is true enough, and proved it to her by a couple of strings I pulled through the Bureau. So she took me into her confidence, at least for this caper."

"So I was the catalyst. And this drop was going to set up Flannerty, not Perez." Smith was thinking about this. "But if I had called Flannerty, like I was supposed to do, wouldn't he wonder how I knew about it, and smell a rat, as you put it?"

"That's the reason you had to sleep through Friday, I'm afraid," said Maria, winking at her brother.

"But how did the drop get moved to Saturday, to today, then?" asked Smith. "And what was to keep me from tipping off Flannerty today?"

Maria laughed. "Think about it, Willie. How do you know this is Saturday?"

“Joe has told me so a dozen times!" said Smith. "I saw yesterday's paper! Everybody in The O said so!"

"Diane said so. Or, I should say, Special Agent D. said so," said Maria, "and you saw today's paper. We couldn't help that. Diane made you think it was yesterday's."

"And Mr. Smith, you yourself told me, you know, to keep tellin' you it was Saturday," said Joe. "I saw no reason not to, unless if - "

"So it's still Friday!" marvelled Smith. "But how did that letter get back to me so fast? And why?"

"Bureau strings again, said Maria, grinning. "That was my idea. Convinced you absolutely that you had lost a day. You never asked anyone else what day it was, did you?"

"It's the kind of question you feel pretty stupid asking, don't you think?" replied Smith, with feeling. "It seems that I was played for a fool by the whole world. Even Diane at the diner? That takes the cake.""Not at all. You performed flawlessly, completely unhindered by the handicap of not knowing what was going on! Perez needed a reliable witness. Flannerty wanted to rough you up a bit to scare you off, and if things went wrong, to arrest you as the fall guy. We needed a witness and a common denominator to keep all the parties interested. I'm very pleased with the results. Not only is Flannerty in custody, but Perez and her moronic minions as well!" Maria allowed herself a little gloating satisfaction.

"Results!" spat Smith. "I resent being used as a pawn in your little game here! And not only me; what about that poor pilot, and the phone company, for kricesakes - and where the hell did that sandwich girl come from?"

"Mr. Smith, I watched the ambulance men get the pilot out o' the crash," said Joe, "an' he dint look too good to me, not bein' no doctor or nurse or nothin', you know, but he was movin' his arms a little, like this, or no, it was more like this maybe, well - but anyhow, the medic ladies said they thought he broke his legs, an' they couldn't tell right then 'bout his insides or nothin', you know, but they thought he'd be OK sooner or later, an' I figured more later than sooner, just between us, an' the one lady, who I called a nurse, but who got huffy with me then an' said she was Doctor somebody, I forget the name just now, maybe I'll think of it some other time, like that one time I couldn't remember Joe DiMaggio's name to save my soul, and here he's got my own name an' ever'thin', ain't that just the way - but anyhow this Doctor somethin' says this guy was pretty lucky, which I couldn't figure, seein' as how he just got in a plane crash an' busted his legs an' who knows what else, so I asked her what she meant, an' she says it looked like the plane was goin' slow, for a plane, an' it was pretty close to the ground, which I know for a fact it was 'cause I seen it comin' on my cycle an' thought it was comin' right for me, an' she said the plane landed not too bad for a crash, right on top o' that car, what crumpled up just like a can, she said, an' rolled forwards some on its wheels, an' cushioned the fall or somethin'; so I asked her could I get her a san'wich if she wanted, 'cause she was kinda nice, you know, but she had to go with the ambulance an' didn't have time right then, an' now I can't remember her name or nothin, just like always, or - "

"I'm glad he wasn't hurt too badly," interrupted Maria. "He's a police officer. One very nice touch in regard to the plane, though: it's Perez's! And Willie, I'm not sure about the sandwich thing, but I think Diane sent that trailer out here to pick up a few extra bucks."

"But goddamnit, what about all those bets I placed with you?" Smith was heating up. "I gave you a lot of money! And I could use it now that it looks like I won't get paid for all my work on this case!"

"I'm afraid you're right about not getting paid for this case, although you must admit you had little to do with `solving' it. But as far as the bets you placed, I have some good news for you." Maria smiled at him.

"Well at least I'll get that money back, then," said Smith."With interest!" chuckled Joe.

"What does he mean?" demanded Smith of Maria.

"I took the liberty of actually placing the bets in the interest of preserving my cover," said Maria. "Didn't you read that newspaper you picked up? One of your long shots came in! You're coming into a tidy bundle!"

"No shit!" said Smith. "No shit! Jeece, that does it, then! I quit!"

He threw his license on the table.

"You may want to keep this for later," said Maria, picking it up. "Now, tell me. Are we still on for tonight?"

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